


The Conventional Rules

by thealmightyh



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Angel & Demon Interactions, Body Worship, Book/TV Series Mashup, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Confessions, First Time, Good Omens Kink Meme 2019, Jealousy, M/M, Praise Kink, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 23:07:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19386334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thealmightyh/pseuds/thealmightyh
Summary: Prompt: As per the Arrangement, sometimes Aziraphale performs a temptation and sometimes Crowley performs a miracle. This saunters vaguely downhill when one or the other wants to watch.Summary: Crowley wants to watch.“I want to see you do it.”They were in Soho, surrounded by books, drinking a1961 Haut-Brionwith ample spice. Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed to very suspicious slits. “See me do what, exactly?”“You know,it.”“What?!”“Notthatyou utter pillock."





	The Conventional Rules

**Author's Note:**

> **I'm on tumblr now...[HERE](https://thealmightyh.tumblr.com/)**
> 
> Whelp. It's been an achingly long time since I wrote anything worth reading. Some of you may remember me from a grossly large collection of SPN smut. My tumblr babies will prolly remember my vibe, kiss kiss lovelies.
> 
> Answered the calling of this Good Omens Kink Meme prompt [**HERE**](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=14696#cmt14696)
> 
> From the book:
> 
> "Many people, meeting Aziraphale for the first time, formed three impressions: that he was English, that he was intelligent, and that he was gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide. Two of these were wrong; Heaven is not in England, whatever certain poets may have thought, and angels are sexless unless they really want to make an effort."

**The Conventional Rules**

 

“It’s only a minor temptation,” the demon Crowley wheedled.

And just like that, the Arrangement was born. Crowley would be tied up with this or that, the angel Aziraphale would have reservations for a new restaurant, very posh, just opening. Tempting and miracle-making were, by and large, the same thing but with very different end results. Provided that they kept the official paperwork straight, neither Heaven nor Hell needed to know. Sometimes Aziraphale was the bad thing, sometimes Crowley was the good foot, hopping as and when necessary. Inevitably, one of them was bound to complicate things.

“I want to see you do it.”

They were in Soho, surrounded by books, drinking a _1961 Haut-Brion_ with ample spice. Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed to very suspicious slits. “See me do what, exactly?”

“You know, _it_.”

“What?!”

“Not _that_ you utter pillock." Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to drive the sudden flash of hedonism from his mind. “Temptation. I’ve never seen you do one.”

“And you never shall,” Aziraphale huffed. “That was not part of the Arrangement.”

“It could be.”

“No.”

“Show me mine, and I’ll show you yours.” Crowley lifted his wine glass, taking a deep draw while peering over the edge of his dark sunglasses. “Could be interesting.”

Interesting. Aziraphale put down the book he was pretending to read as Crowley slunk around his reading room like a nervous pipe cleaner with too many bendy bits.

“Just imagine—” Crowley knew when he had an ace in the pocket; Aziraphale looked curious, and that meant he was listening “—watching me slither up to some poor unsuspecting sap whose down on his luck, giving him God's great goodness nice and deep.”

“Must you make it sound so... lewd?”

“Yes.” Crowley’s million-watt smile spelled familiar trouble. “Besides, I’ve got a bottle of _Château Cheval Blanc_ circa 1947 that says I do you better than you do me.” 

“A wager.”

“Yeah, why not?”

“If I agree to this nonsense—and I’m not agreeing to it before you get any wild ideas—what possible benefit is there for me besides a wine you’ll let me drink anyway?”

“Well,” Crowley, who was already deliciously drunk, folded up against Aziraphale’s shoulder like an umbrella. “Sometimes, when I do the good thing... it gets me a little puritanical around the collar. And that? That gets me all warm and dewy in the downstairs.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale looked scandalized.

Crowley grinned, the cheeky flick of his forked tongue making Aziraphale red from tip to toe. “C’mon, angel. A little tit for tat. One temptation, one miracle, done deal.”

“And if we tie?”

“We’ll do each other. Little tainting, little holy...ing.”

Pressed up against his, Crowley’s knee was four-thousand degrees and Aziraphale’s tartan sweater vest developed biologically improbable sweat glands just to deal with it.

“Fine.”

“Yeah?”

“But I won’t enjoy it.” Aziraphale grouched, smoothing down his already perfect pressed pants. “So don’t expect a—a show. One temptation, standard issue. That’s it.”

 

***

 

Oh, it was a show all right.

Crowley was lurking at the bar of a dim but rather posh club called the _Howling Dog_ nursing a warming manhattan and watching Aziraphale with a hungry half-smile. Bloody angel had dressed for the century at least—tan dress pants, a debonair white turtleneck, a navy blazer that was probably the darkest thing he owned. He had a Rolex on, an expensive one. But what he also had was a dark-eyed Portuguese boy all silk and sinew draped over his lap like a napkin. The poor lad was still wearing the club’s own damn valet uniform.

Crowley had to admit, Aziraphale was _good_. He’d had his doubts—the angel stuck out like a sore thumb and the entire bar was throbbing with a darkness and a heat that made a demon shiver. You can’t tempt people who are already asking for a loofah in a lake of sin, but Aziraphale had managed to find _him_. The one pure soul in the house. Painfully closeted, desperately out of place. Exactly the type that Crowley would have picked from the crowd.

It started at the bar, where Crowley was now sitting. Aziraphale strode up, breathing wealth like he was made of it. He’d sat down opposite the boy like he owned the entire venue and said to the bartender: “I’d like to buy this delicious young man a drink.”

The night could have ended with the boy’s curt: “I don’t drink.” But Aziraphale was smooth like butter. “You do tonight. Vodka, kiss of lime. For my friend, bottle of Cristal, one glass, bowl of cherries on ice.” Crowley licked his lips, watching from a shaded alcove. _He’s just a poor boy from a poor family,_ he hummed. Good call on flaunting the money pouch.

The vodka, champagne, glass, and cherries were set on a tray on the bar, and Aziraphale gave the bartender a withering look. “To our table, if you’d be so kind.”

He was so kind. The boy, starstruck, followed. They were seated on shiny red leather couches in the club’s VIP area, Aziraphale counted out his tab in crisp hundreds and then slid one from his cuff to the bartender’s palm so fast it startled the poor man. Crowley nearly choked on his drink. Of _course_ Aziraphale would do parlour tricks when he tipped.

“Do see to it that we’re well attended this evening.” Aziraphale smiled at the bartender. “But, my friend and I would be ever so grateful if we’re otherwise undisturbed.”

The man, who had seemed a little dazed throughout the entire encounter felt reality creeping back into his forebrain “Hey, isn’t he supposed to be outside parking the cars?”

“No, not tonight.” 

“Oh, ah, right.”

“Some privacy, if you please.”

“Oh, ah... right?”

Crowley snorted. He’d have to teach Aziraphale the fine art of suggestion. He was pretty sure that the poor man had just lost a significant portion of his college degree. Sloppy, absolutely sloppy. You give people the _inkling_ to do things, you don’t move them against their will because that’s a matter of, well, brain matter. Quite mushy, brain matter. It needed gentle prodding, and Aziraphale’s prodding was more like taking a sledgehammer to a pudding.

“What do you want from me?” Asked the boy, looking at Aziraphale. Crowley snapped to attention, craning his neck. This was the money shot; make it or break it, angel.

“Nothing.”

 _Nothing?_ Crowley fumed. That’s not how you tempt a person you bloody— “I just want a pretty young thing to pay attention to me exclusively and all evening. No strings.”

The boy’s lip twitched, “I don’t—for money, I mean.”

“Oh, heavens no.” Aziraphale reached out, cupping the side of the boy’s face with his palm, and with his thumb traced the angle of his jaw, slowly, cruelly, stopping at the bowed swell of his lip. “Gentlemen never pay for services rendered. You are here to drink my champagne, press your lithe little body next to mine, and then to go home. Unless—”

“Unless?”

“Unless,” Aziraphale’s expression darkened and Crowley leaned forward so fast he almost fell out of his bar stool. “You want to stay, in which case we may see fit to adjust this…” Aziraphale looked up, knowing Crowley’s eyes would catch his, “Arrangement.” 

Crowley _did_ choke on his drink. In a fit of coughing, he excused himself to the parking lot and waited. He’d done enough tempting to know what came next. Aziraphale appeared less than fifteen minutes later, looking a little tousled but no worse for wear. 

“Did you?”

“Tempt him? Obviously.” Aziraphale snapped his fingers and his clothing aged one-hundred-and-sixty-eight years. “Sign here,” he produced a rather swampish looking parchment with a vague, sulphurous odour. “One lust, courtesy of a Mr. A. J. Crowley.”

“But you didn’t...?” Crowley asked, trying to make it seem conversational as he signed his name. It wouldn’t matter if he had except for all the reasons it would.

“Oh, heavens no. You never make an effort for mortals.” Aziraphale looked a little pink in the face, “Although, he was a rather excellent kisser if I’m any judge. Oddly tender. I suppose it’s for the best, though. Repressed little soul. Perhaps all he needed was a little get-up-and-go to give him that push to be out about it down the road. I’d like to think that this one will end in a little goodness in the long run, don’t you? Oh. I suppose you don’t.”

 

***

 

Crowley had a lot to live up to insofar as miracles were concerned. After Aziraphale’s stellar performance he needed something with a bang to set the scales even. He had his pride, and now the whole affair had taken on the flavour of an actual challenge. The evening after Aziraphale’s little tempt he had suggested that they call it off, insisting that there was no reason for Crowley to make a spectacle of himself since he’d already gotten what he wanted.

Fat damn chance.

Crowley scanned the seating area. What he needed was a mortal that needed his particular brand of ephemeral goodness in the worst way, and then he found her.

Thick thighs, warm eyes, nursing a dirty martini when all she wanted was the olive. They had picked the same club in the interest of fairness. Crowley was altogether too aware of Aziraphale’s eyes on his backside as he slunk up to the bar, snakeskin and leather, tasting the air with a barely perceptible flick of the tongue; hmm, heartbreak and shame. She’d been dating—ahh, married. Dumped. _Duped_. The piece of shit had called her—oh, that bastard.

Aziraphale made of point of not reading mortal’s minds. It wasn’t fair, it was _cheating_. Crowley had no such qualms. He read them like paperbacks. This curvy stunner was crying into her drink over some fuckabout who hadn’t given her an orgasm in six years.

“Evenin’ gorgeous,” Crowley said, sliding up beside her, making sure she could see that he was tall, dark, and handsome. “Drinking for one or hungry for company?”

“I, uh…” She stared at him. “Sorry?”

He laughed, extending a hand. “Anthony J. Crowley. I’m hitting on you.”

Crowley could almost feel Aziraphale’s caustic disapproval. _You aren’t supposed to be so direct! Divinity is subtle you giant oaf!_ Thankfully, Crowley had spent most of his immortality with an angel’s eyes frying him to a crisp from behind, so he carried on.

“You’re… I’m not…?”

“Are you hungry?” Crowley pressed, grabbing a handful of peanuts and popping one into his mouth. “I’m here on business and I hate eating alone. Can I tempt you?”

Several feet away, the stem of Aziraphale’s wine glass exploded and then instantaneously repaired itself at the word ‘tempt’. The bartender, who had already been having a rather odd week, decided not to acknowledge that it happened. That was best.

Tucked shoulder to shoulder, Crowley and his charge were eating pita corners and hot spinach dip. She was laughing, Crowley was crooning. If the rosy blush of her cheeks or the heavy curve of her hip reminded him of Aziraphale even a little, he’d drink holy water before admitting it. He checked his watch, time for a bathroom break. She excused herself, he waited two minutes before slipping from the table, lurking near a potted plant not far from the loo. Five, four, three, two, one. Aziraphale had requested a table change to watch.

“Anthony, what are you—?”

“I have to go.”

“What?”

“The business I’m here on, it’s—” Crowley looked pained, “I never get to stay long but this is the first time I’ve wanted to stay in such a long time. I just... can I kiss you…?”

She was breathless, wrists caught in his hands and his body tight to hers. “Let me... Let me, just…” He was kissing her, touching her, cradling her. In Crowley’s auditory peripheral, the sound of an angel’s disapproving _hmph_. Crowley licked her pulse to spite him.

“So pretty, so gorgeous, so _thick_ , so—” Crowley fell to his knees, grabbed the meat of her thighs and buried his face in the swell of her salted quiver. Making a soggy, sopping, secret mess of the entire affair he groaned appreciatively against her skin. “Never thought—” lick, suck, rut, “That I’d touch someone so beautiful. So—” lick, suck, moan, “ _—divine_.”

Ah, there it was. Crowley felt the miracle before he felt her legs shake. Those were his favourites; the ones that made people _feel_ better. He kissed her, partly because the panting round of her lower lip felt achingly inviting but mostly because Aziraphale was watching. In the parking lot, five minutes later, Aziraphale huffily signed a miracle contract—beautiful white, lavender and sandalwood—and then pointed an accusing finger.

“That was lust!”

“Was not.”

“It was!”

“Angel, if it was lust, one there’d be no contract—” he waggled the paperwork in front of his nose, “—and two, she wouldn't have felt that nice godly warmth that comes when you love the bits and toggles your creator made for you. Spunky lass; she’s gonna go home, get herself a two-piece lingerie set, a Chinese dinner for one, and love herself for once.”

“Well, your methods are hardly…”

“Oh? ‘He was a rather excellent kisser.’ Bugger off, Aziraphale.” Call it six-thousand years worth of being demonized for being a demon, but it struck a nerve. Crowley was pissed off, pent up, and tired of being chided. “You always find something wrong with how I do things, but head office has never complained. You’ve got a thousand of these, every one of them signed by you, no matter where my tongue ends up. Check the records.”

“Well, I rather—”

“You rather nothing.” Crowley leaned in, crowding into Aziraphale’s personal space. “Make an effort next time, and maybe it’ll be your fat thighs keepin’ my ears warm.”

 

***

 

Crowley was the picture of misery. Whisky bottles littered his darkened room. He hadn’t bothered to change his clothes for three days. He was being haunted by his own damn cheek. “Maybe it’ll be your fat thighs keepin’ my ears warm”. He groaned. What was he thinking. _What was he thinking?_   The phone rang, he ignored it. The voicemail picked up.

“Crowley, I know you’re there. Pick up the phone.”

_Click._

“Crowley, I swear if you don’t pick up your phone I’ll… Crowley, pick up.”

_Click._

“Pick up the phone!”

_Click._

“Fine, you miserable Cretan. I will be at the bar, as will you be in—” Crowley stared at the ceiling; of course Aziraphale was checking his watch. “—Forty-nine minutes. Rest assured that my method of miracle is just as... potent as your temptation. So arrive on time."

Crowley arrived. 

Crowley was an idiot.

Aziraphale was perched at the bar, wearing his usual dated three-piece, sipping the second most expensive red wine that they had, and Crowley’s heart ached in a way he both expected and loathed. What was this now? A pissing contest? He didn’t want to do it. This had gone far enough. Sure, he was a demon, but he wasn’t evil as far as evil-doing went. He was decent at miracles, he was just confined to the tools given. Crowley couldn’t just smile at someone like Aziraphale could and somehow light up their entire existence.

Shit.

“Angel, look…” Crowley took the seat next to Aziraphale and gestured for someone to refill his wine. “Whatever you’re trying to prove, you don’t need to. You win, I lose.”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale turned. “Do I know you?”

“Oh come off it, you told me to meet you here and—oh.” Crowley’s _oh_ was met with the wry barely-there tick of Aziraphale’s upper lip. “Sorry, nevermind the refill.” Crowley looked at the bartender who was already holding it and recovered, “Just leave the bottle.”

Crowley should have known better. Aziraphale was the most stubborn, obstinate, singularly focused creature in existence. He wouldn’t just concede. Crowley had made his bed, and at some point, they made it to those damn red leather couches. Crowley was dying.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, was acting every bit the rent boy, too shy to be forward, too coy to convince anyone he wasn’t pressed to Crowley’s side like a fucking present for a reason. Everything felt too warm, too real, and Crowley wasn’t sure who was tempting who until Aziraphale ghosted his hand from Crowley’s knee to his thigh.

People were staring. Crowley looked like, well, Crowley; slinky, sinuous, oozing sex out of every pore, and Aziraphale... he looked like an English teacher who was semi-serious about birdwatching. Still, Crowley was feeding him sweet cherries, licking the shell of his ear, seeding temptation into every bit of flesh he could reach, unaware that the wave of want bleeding from his aura was coating nearby mortals. Aziraphale wasn’t giving up.

“Tempted, angel? I could take you home right now, make it special.” Crowley held every syllable just long enough to make it warm. This was dangerous territory. Aziraphale wasn’t conceding—he didn’t even seem shaken—he just... took it. Every touch, every tempt. He was supposed to quit! He was supposed to be flustered and mad and… and... forgive Crowley a few days later over a bottle of fancy French wine and a ballsy sorry-not-sorry.

“Take me home.”

“Uh…” Crowley faltered. “Aziraphale c’mon, this has gone far en—.”

The ‘enough’ died on his tongue with the snap of an angel’s finger, and he found himself topless and spread-eagled on a bed that Aziraphale hadn’t had until four-eighths of a second earlier. He rattled his (nylon) chains. “Okay, okay, you win. Let me up.”

“You really are lovely.” Aziraphale was standing next to him, unbuttoning the cuffs of his dress shirt and rolling each sleeve up to his freckled forearm. “ _Divine_ , even.”

“Angel—” Crowley faltered, “Whatever you’re... just untie me.”

“It’s rope not holy gold.” Aziraphale had the actual audacity to roll his eyes. “Leave if you’d rather. Of course,” He looked down. “That would imply my methods are superior.”

“Ah. Well.”

“Those eyes. That _mouth_.” Aziraphale knelt on the bed, swinging one thick calf over Crowley’s knees and leaning back, perching on them. “Always so rude, that mouth. But the eyes, they see right through to the soul, don’t they? I can see it, Crowley. And it’s so _clean_.”

Aziraphale’s palm was warm on Crowley’s thigh—his hip—his... oh.

“Made an effort, did we?” Aziraphale squeezed. “Well, so did I.” His hips slid, still clothed, delicious against Crowley’s skin. “But I think I’d rather bite down and taste ‘God’s great goodness nice and deep’ perhaps. There _is_ goodness in you," Crowley’s breath hitched as Aziraphale praised him. “I can feel it. Sanctified into your skin. Blessed into your bones.”

Weakly, “Fuck you.” Even weaker, “I’m not.”

But Aziraphale was kissing up his left side, then his right side, sliding book-soft hands along every serpentine rib, pinching and pulling and—oh _hell_. His tongue. Hot and warm and wet. Kissing god into everything he could touch. Crowley was burning up from the inside.

This was a dangerous idea. A terrible idea. A no good very bad idea.

“Stop!” Crowley snapped his fingers and the ropes turned to ash. He scrambled up, covering his affronted dignity with an accent pillow. “This isn’t a game, Aziraphale!”

“Isn’t it?” Aziraphale turned to face him, eyes flashing. “After all these years, and you still have to push the envelope, Crowley. What I did to that boy was a necessity. You know what it takes for an angel to tempt someone. That’s why I didn’t want to show you! And then you—with that girl—and you said if I just—you’ve never _asked_ me, Crowley. Not once.”

“Asked you what, fancy a shag? Bit of a rub and tug?” Crowley felt like an animal in a cage, backing up and gnashing his teeth. This wasn’t how any of this was supposed to go, but now he just couldn’t stop talking. “I’ve been chasing you for fucking centuries. What do I need to ask you that you couldn’t figure out yourself?” _Stop talking. Stop talking. Goddamnit, Crowley close your fucking—_ “Your stupid suits and your stupid books and your stupid all of you, driving me insane, and nothing I’ll ever do is good enough for you.”

“Crowley…”

“I can’t stop loving you.” Crowley snapped his mouth shut so fast that he was lucky not to break a tooth. He would have disappeared if Aziraphale hadn’t been wise to his usual tactics: run, hide, drink, repeat. The room was instantaneously ordained; he couldn’t leave.

“I never asked you to stop.”

“Aziraphale…”

“Why do you think I agreed to split the workload, Crowley?” Aziraphale sounded exasperated. “Because you asked me to. It’s the same reason I do every other insane thing you goad me into.” He observed Crowley, who was still clutching his accent pillow like a shield. “I would do anything you ask me to do, no matter the ethereal consequences.”

“Angel…”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and de-ordained the walls. “Go home, demon. And when you come back tomorrow, bring me the wine you promised. I rather think I’m owed.”

 

***

 

Crowley burst into the bookshop at half past seven the following evening, a bottle of fine wine tucked under one arm, Thai takeout for two under the other. He had wasted no less than four demonic miracles on rearranging his outfit and one on restyling his hair before undoing it all and swearing at his frazzled reflection. “All right, I’m here, and I’m asking.” 

The whole tableau was a little more dramatic than Crowley had planned. Aziraphale looked up from his desk, folded the reading glasses he didn’t need but wore for the aesthetic, shrugged off his crocheted reading blanket, and folded it. He stared at Crowley who stared back at him, the door to the bookshop wide open, the glow of the streetlamp silhouetting him in a sympathetic glow, juice from their Som Tum dripping on the antique carpet. 

“Shut the door, Crowley.”

Crowley shut the door and let Aziraphale pry both wine and dinner gently from his hands. He took off his sunglasses and set them aside. Then, Aziraphale kissed him.

Just a slow brush of the lips, perfect and soft. Crowley froze and then he kissed back, still achingly shallow, still dangerously too much. Aziraphale’s lips parted, his tongue begged permission, he kissed into Crowley’s mouth like he owned it. He did. He did fucking own it, for as long as he wanted it, for the rest of forever. Aziraphale’s hands were tangled in his hair without warning, dragging him closer, sucking his bottom lip and Crowley keened.

The whine surprised them both, but Aziraphale recovered faster. He slipped Crowley’s black jacket from his shoulders, letting it puddle on the floor, tracing the bony perfection of his clavicles before sucking a bruise into the sunken curve of his skinny shoulder. 

Something in Crowley broke like a damn. It spilled into his psyche like liquid fire and Aziraphale found himself smashed against a bookshelf, his legs wrapped around Crowley’s barely-there waist for support. Crowley’s yellow eyes were dangerously wild cattish slits. His whole body slithered over Aziraphale’s as he grabbed a heavy handful of his rounded ass. That body—that pure good gold deep warm body—Crowley was digging bruises into Aziraphale’s hips, sucking sin into his lips, undulating just to hear the “Oh, oh, oh, oh—!”

_Thump!_

Crowley was flat on his back, Aziraphale straddling his legs like before, but this time—hell, this time—he was pinning his arms to his sides. It was effortless, the iron-hard muscles of his inhuman arms immune to the way Crowley struggled, gasping for touch.  

_Snap!_

One more darkside miracle; they were naked, Aziraphale’s chubby cock was short and girthy and guaranteed to burn its own memory into the fabric of Crowley’s soul. “I need it.”

“ _Ask_.” Aziraphale hissed, leaving spit-wet bruises everywhere he could reach.

“Love me.” 

Let it be a fragile, broken admission another time. Aziraphale released his arms, rolling off his legs only to grab his hips and drag him forward. Crowley felt like a ragdoll, knobbly knees hooked over Aziraphale’s shoulders when—oh fuck, _FUCK_ —Aziraphale’s tongue was buried in his asshole, sucking, sighing, the purr of every muffled moan breeding an ache Crowley had only ever created in other people. It was a sudden and deep-seeded emptiness. He wanted— _needed_ —the feeling of fullness, of stretch, and burn, and purge.

Aziraphale’s thumbs were slick, shoved in rough, spreading Crowley wider so he could lick in deeper. Crowley’s brow was damp, his chest was heaving, his hips were sharp and stuttering. Aziraphale dragged Crowley’s legs off his shoulders, nipping his left ankle and kissing the spread of his arch. “I’ve never done anything but love you, Crowley.”

Aziraphale was kissing him, swallowing the broken string of fucks and fuck-you’s that meant nothing next to the hard swell of his cockhead pressing into Crowley’s untried body. He was tight, hot, begging and writhing, the serpent in his spine twisting him closer, harder, faster, more. There was a glistening pool of precome on Crowley’s concave gut, and the plush roll of Aziraphale’s belly was rubbing ruinously against his aching ballsack.

“I’m—you’re—” He doesn’t finish—can’t finish—Aziraphale’s hand is wrapped around his neck, around his soul, breathing electricity into every blunted thrust. Crowley comes untouched and choking as Aziraphale’s hips stutter. The animal grunt Aziraphale makes as he finishes tattoos itself in Crowley’s brain as he slides out shakily, barely resisting the urge to suck the mess of spunk and sweat they made together as it trickled to the floor.

Crowley’s eyes were wet, and Aziraphale kissed each salted cheekbone.

 

***

 

“And _thassawhy—thassawhy_ my people don’t like your people.” Crowley made a broad gesture with his chopsticks, a bit of shrimp stuck to his lip. “So stuffy, with your—”

“Inherent goodness?” Aziraphale, equally drunk, suggested.

“ _Tartan_.” Crowley corrected sourly.

“Ah, yes.” Aziraphale poured himself more wine. “All of _hic_ -hell hates all of _hic_ -heaven because of—of—of _blasted sweater vests_.” He looked at his glass, shook his head, and put it back down. “Time to sober up, I think. Come now, don’t give me that look.”

Six wine bottles miraculously—and perhaps a little demonically—refilled themselves, and Aziraphale leaned back on his couch, pinkie finger tangled with Crowley’s. They were silent for a spell before something needed to be said. “What happens if Heaven finds out?”

“I don’t know.” Aziraphale picked at a stray thread attached to the sofa.

“Tell them I tempted you.”

“You didn’t tempt me.”

“That doesn’t matter.” Crowley was damn near begging. “C’mon, think. I’d probably get a bloody promotion for pulling off that kind of a trick, but you, they’d make you—”

“Fall? I doubt it.” Aziraphale glanced up, sighed, and brushed off the bit of shrimp that had migrated to Crowley’s chin. “I suppose we’ve already proved I’d make a decent demon when it gets right down to the sticky of it, but somehow I doubt a demotion is on the menu.”

“Bit of a change of heart from your usual 'You stop blaspheming right now, Crowley' and 'That's entirely indecent Crowley' eh?" He tried to laugh, but it sounded hollow. 

“Bit of a change of heart.” Aziraphale nodded. “I suppose that’s it, isn’t it? I have been sure of precious few things in a very long eternity. There has been no constant in it, not in the grand plan, nor in the ultimate purpose. But there has always you, hasn’t there?”

“I don’t really know what that means.” Crowley admitted.

“Neither do I.” Aziraphale looked up at him with a gentle expression. “But I’m starting to suspect that you and I weren’t exactly built to play by the conventional rules.” 


End file.
